Character Studies
by Ambrelle Shirak
Summary: Featuring many of G1 cast.  Previously entitled Tagalong.  Updated to include the sketches for the other two members of the OC team.
1. Tagalong

Tagalong

_Nightshade Character Study _

"Mind if I tag along?" I startle the two of them; the tiny human steps instinctively behind the Autobot's foot. For a moment, the scout's optics are guarded, shadowed as he cants his head to look up at me. I carefully lower myself from my perch, barely dislodging rocks or stones from the small escarpment.

I know the Autobot's will never get accustomed to my lurking tendencies. It seems to be the most insurmountable truth of all that separates me forever from their little club. I wait, forever patient, as the disquieting effects of my sudden appearance fades from them. We are still within visual distance of the _Ark_, so I am not outside of my parameters of freedom. I assess and process the myriad of potential meanings contained in a single glance between the two.

_Inseparable_. That is the term I would attach to the relationship between the scout and the human. As they begin to relax, barely a nanocycle after my first vocalization, I allow my optics to avert from the two of them, letting the cloak of humility settling with galling ease around my mannerisms.

"I did not intend to startle you." The effect of the sideways apology is immediate. The fleshling breaks into a smile, emerging from behind the protective yellow plating to actually approach me. Silently, I laud his bravery.

"It's really okay, Nightshade! It's not like you meant to sneak up on us. Right, Bumblebee?" I know Spike means to be flattering; yet being reminded of my primary function still unsettles me on strange levels. "I think it'd be great if you came with us."

Bumblebee does not seem as sure as his human companion. But the scout is optimistic, free-spirited, and kind-Sparked. The two of them have already accepted my brother in unquestioning faith; yet I fail to comprehend why my acceptance is struggled with so.

"I don't see why not," Bumblebee finally shrugs, looking more down at the human than in my direction. "It's not like anything's going to happen on the way to Carly's." The Autobot then laughs. It's warm, friendly sound, and I find myself smiling in response.

Spike cheers and claps his hands, even as Bumblebee transforms, refolding and reshaping his armor into the small Terran vehicle. Almost instantly, Spike climbs inside, completely trusting. For me, watching the two of them interact is like watching the Spark-twins. I believe the expression humans use would run something like "being green with envy?" Such bonds of trust are things I will never enjoy. Not even with my own 'brothers,' for in the long run, they are simply means to the fulfillment of my prime directive.

Even as I silently damn my Creator to and from the Inferno, I give the single pulse signal to trigger my own transformation.

The alternation is so quick. So easy. Mass displacement technology and clever use of subspace folding result in my favorite of all my prior local camouflages. There is no need for stealth this evening, so I retract the silencing baffles from my exhaust manifolds. The resulting noise is thunderous and rumbling all at once, pulsing in tempo with my idling engine. My gyros keep me stabilized and upright on two wheels while I wait for Bumblebee to rev up.

As an afterthought, I ping Prowl's private com channel. His sharp greeting makes me struggle with myself, fighting every urge to take off the humble mantle and really give him a what for. "_As required, I am informing you of my intended movements off base. I am accompanying Bumblebee and Spike on an excursion._" I pause, a hesitation that the ultra-logical tactician will undoubtedly notice, before I add. "_Sir._"

"_Duly noted._" Prowl's answer, and his closing of the com comes nearly instantaneously. A small measure of my processor wonders just what could be distracting him, while the rest diverts to the proper sequence of clutch-gear-accelerator that will bring me comfortably within Bumblebee's dust trail.

This is only the third time, since I had been reactivated, that I have utilized my vehicular mode. Each of the other occasions had resulted in the near-stasis lock of either myself, or an Autobot. It is no wonder that I am not trusted.

As I follow Bumblebee's sunshine aft through the darkening desert, my own com pings softly, carrying with it the scout's ident codes.

"_What's up?_" chimes his digitized voice. "_You're awfully quiet back there._"

In response, I rev up, spinning my rear wheel as I accelerate. When I pull even with him, I goose my throttle once more, lifting my front end into a wheelie, before I set it back down. "_Just thinking._" I finally answer. From the sounds of things, he's relaying our com channel over his internal speakers.

"_What about?_" That was Spike's voice, transmitted over the com. If I could smile at his curiosity, I would. Not many had bothered to be concerned with my internal thoughts, but that was something I allowed. Halogen was much better in the spotlight of attention than I had ever been.

"_Stuff and things?_" I offer up that explanation lightly, giving them a hint at what lays hidden beneath my matte surface. External sensors paint the humans expression against the canvas of my processors. I do not allow my low chuckle to transmit over the open channel. "_Nothing consequential._" I append, swiftly.

"_C'mon and share,_" Spike practically begs me.

"_Yeah, Nights, you don't ever talk to anyone!_" Bumblebee teams up with him. The suspicious part of me tries to convince the rest of my processor that the scout has been put up to this line of questioning.

"_There is never much for me to say._" I try to defend myself, but I can feel the veracity of my transmissions fading. As soon as I realize that, Bumblebee is the one to call me on it.

"_That's not what Halo tells us. Says you're one of the talkative ones._" Once more, his laughter is warm. Perhaps that is how the scout was designed, to make connections to even those who believe themselves to be solitary and apart.

This time, I allow my soft chuckle to transmit. "_You should know by now my brother is prone to exaggeration._"

"_Why do you call him that? I thought the whole Spark splitting thing was really rare._" Spike chimes in before the Autobot can respond. Once more, I allow myself to fall back, once we begin to enter city limits. Bumblebee slows to obey human laws, and I am forced to comply as well. Letting my gyros shift from side to side, I etch a lazy sine wave behind the Volkswagen, conscious of the points and stares I'm beginning to attract.

"_It is. Halogen and I are not Spark-twins. But the same hands created our forms, and programmed our systems. So in that essence, we are siblings._" The honesty feels comfortable. It is one of the many reasons that my siblings and I had always preferred working with the Autobots. One always knew there was truth in their communications. "_Your Prime has a brother._" I choose to inform Spike gently.

"_Really!?_"

"_Yup_." Bumblebee backs me up on it. "_Ultra Magnus._"

"_They are… very much alike. Perhaps, Spike, it will amuse you to know that Prime is the younger of the duo._" When Bumblebee rolls to a stop at a red light, I edge up behind him, and give him a playful nudge with my front tire. Two white lights blink on as the Bug threatens to reverse right into me. The playful attitude he retains loosens my vocalizer further. "_Of the many times we operated for the Autobots on Cybertron, Magnus was always the first to ask us to stay permanently._"

"_Why didn't you_?" Bee shifts gears and takes an easy right hand turn. We are beginning to pass from the industrial areas of Portland, into the more settled areas. Everything is spread apart, very green, very moist. It is a stark change for me from the ruined residential areas of Cybertron. I find myself stalling for time, while I search for the answer to Bumblebee's question.

All I had ever known on Cybertron was destruction, and death. Even the Autobots had always paid us to do the dirtiest work for them. Memories reveal what I had feared, that it had always been DropZone who had been most adamant about remaining freelance, about continually switching sides in the war of attrition, so that we would be sure to be in on the winner's good graces. It had been that quiet behemoth of a brother who relished the battle more than the outcome. The realization is cold and hard.

"_Nights?_" Bumblebee uses the abbreviated form of my designation as easily as Halogen does. "_You alright?_"

_"We… were afraid of being on the losing side of the war._" I confess it gently, letting my shameful tone carry over through the transmission. "_I still see no reason behind the war, Bumblebee. We were activated and sent into a war not of our making, but of our Creator's. It always felt necessary that we find our own answers._"

"_Sounds like even you Autobots go through the teenage rebellion phase._" Spike was laughing, sharp and quick over the channel. But he could never know the warm glow that my very Spark gave off at being lumped in with the Autobot generality. Perhaps, at least these two would accept me.

The flash of Bumblebee's blinker breaks me out of my warm reverie. He brakes and eases gently into a small paved section in front of a human home. Spike jumps out of Bumblebee's doors as a young female human darts out of the open garage. As they embrace, Bumblebee and I revert to our root modes. I kneel so as not to damage the greenery arching overhead; Bumblebee carries no such worry.

His hand rests suddenly on my shoulder, and I turn my optics toward him. I consciously dim their scarlet glow so that I don't have to see the way it reflects off his face. "I hope in some way, you've found some of those answers, Nights."

His fingers squeeze, the action registered by the pressure sensors in my armor. I slowly smile, and nod. "The answers… they slowly find me."


	2. Violent Cases

Violent Cases

_A DropZone Character Sketch_

It has taken too long to hunt her down. She is elusive, like the morning mist over the ocean. On the rare occasions that I have spotted her, she has been in the company of mechs that would pose a threat to my master plan. When she has been embroiled in battle, Megatron has assigned me to other duties, determined in his manipulative way to keep me away from the one goal I have allowed myself. I have bided my time with the patience of the eternal stars above.

Yet, I bide no longer!

I dive rapidly in altitude, feeling the incredible gravitational forces of this dense little planet ripple along my wings. She lives in bliss, playing a merry game of catch me if you can with the Autobot that idles along the street with her. The night serves her well, the small sleek form of her frame completely disappearing against the street, but her headlight reveals her position. I feel terminal velocity as a sheer force of wind against my plating. Metal groans and shrieks as I force it through its change, panels flipping, swapping, and twisting until I am a giant harpoon of a beast hurtling toward the highway, feet first.

My impact creates two deep craters of pavement and dirt, clouds of dust coughed up from the bowels of the Inferno itself to herald my appearance. The yellow Beetle brakes suddenly, swerving wildly to avoid the flying chunks of tar and rock. My C-15 Galaxy designation is still visible on my wing struts, extending high over my back.

Nightshade's reaction time is admirable. She never comes close to impact, even while the Beetle struggles over strewn rubble. Hm, there's a human passenger involved here. An unexpected boon. Even as I raise my arm, I accept and understand that the noise I hear is the sound of my once beloved sister transforming. My wrist joints unhinge, dropping my hand down and inside the casing of my forearm. Revealed in its place is one of the twin fusion cannons I sport for just these moments.

"DropZone?" She sounds astonished. Perhaps shocked to see that I still function. This sister that I once thought the universe of is the same sister that abandoned me when our shuttle was shot out of the sky. The sister who steps in front of the human carrying Autobot has sided with those that dare fraternize with the primitive squishies. My only answer is the same one that she will always get, nothing more than a simple smile.

"'Bee, get Spike to safety!" She diverts her attention for a split second, and I take advantage of that. The fusion cannon discharges with a fiery roar of hatred. It passes close enough to her forearm that the round bubbles her paint, and jerks her back instinctively. My true target, the aft fender of that Autobot, gets away with little more than a singe mark. It seems that he got the message.

She covers the Autobot's retreat, lunging in for the attack. I stand nearly a chest and shoulders taller than she, plus the added bulk that goes with the height. She has a chance, however, as she was designed to exterminate Sparks, no matter the size of the body it inhabits. I too have a chance, you see, because I was designed to be the perfect defense. She pulls her punches, her first lightning fast strikes glancing harmlessly off my plating.

She still thinks of me as her brother. How quaint. I easily sidestep her roundhouse kick, finally stepping up and out of my landing craters. Just like that, I grab both her extremities, stretching her out to the fullest. I lower my face toward her paler one, smiling into her scarlet optics for just a moment or two. "You're pulling your punches." I whisper softly in her face.

Her optics widen, and then snap off. No. Not off. She simply lowered her shields. She knew I was serious when I used my vocalizer. She doesn't verbally answer the challenge, that wouldn't be my sister. Instead, she moves lightning fast, using the points where my hands hold her steady as levers. The crest of her armored cranial dome bashes violently into my faceplate. Pain registers as scarlet flashes across my optical field, as the sudden assault rocks my head back on my neck.

Reflexively I drop Nightshade. I register the sound of her feet slamming against the pavement even as I cover my cracked plating with a hand. The facial shield is indeed cracked, just under the lower edge of my left optic. I cannot let her out of my sight, because of her tenacity, she poses one of the largest threats to the fulfillment of my own, personalized mission. The world quiets as I engage auditory filters, seeking the soft, sibilant sounds of servomotors and impact dampeners as she moves.

Subspace unfolds by my left hand, dropping my laser pistol into the waiting fingers. I pivot quickly to my right, bringing the weapon up to bear with nothing more than a sound as my guide. The pistol barely kicks against my palm as I fire off four quick bursts. The first two miss their target widely, but the third clips her hip, while the fourth plows hard into her midsection. Her attack leap turns into a defensive roll, as Nightshade curls up around the agony of a torso wound. Sparks shimmer brilliantly into the night, cascading down her matte surface, and landing in smoldering heaps on the pavement.

She lands hard on her back, skidding and rolling like a giant metal log. I bound after her, down the deserted highway. In the distance, there are lights already approaching us. Flashing lights, red and white, blue and red, lights which I can only assume belong to her would be Autobot rescuers. The Volkswagen probably radioed for help.

My own private com link pings softly. Nightshade is trying to speak with me, on the intimate level that she and I once shared. I refuse to answer it. Stepping forward to her prone form, I trap her beneath my support strut, letting the heavy weight of my root mode settle right on top of her exposed circuitry. She tries to remain brave, fighting against the urge to cry out in pain. But I can see the visceral agony painted in her optics. The armor plating buckles and crushes under the pressure of my foot.

Slowly, I lean down, pulling in air audibly through my intakes, letting the cool damp atmosphere cool my engine, and keep my energon stores from running too hot. I flex my fingers, looking at the approaching lights to gauge their distance. I have more than enough time. As I lean down, listening to the buckle and crush of metal alloys beneath my weight, I hook the pointed tips of my fingers just beneath her chassis.

Suddenly, spearing agony rips through the coil strand infrastructure of my supporting leg. Nightshade is always full of surprises, the terror in her optics has transformed into pure and unadulterated hatred. Ahah! She has begun to fight! True, her piddling little energon dagger thrust into my ankle joint is too little, too late, but the effect it has on my systems is immediate.

Forgoing the desire to enjoy her torture, I rip my hand upward, flinging the smooth black armor away without much effort. She screams now, the agony of having the armor stripped off becomes too much for her to bear. The glow inside her Spark chamber pulses frantically, racing as she seeks some escape.

"I have a present for you, little sister." I whisper gently, letting a small drone crawl slowly from beneath my fuselage. I reach down into her exposed cavity, letting my fingers curl lovingly around her core. The drone slides down, and integrates itself into her systems, as I squeeze the only reinforced section of my little sister's form. The alloy comprising her Spark chamber does not buckle beneath the pressure, instead, it simply causes all of her higher functions to shut down. Such a wonderful self-preservation program our Creator instilled in each of us.

The drone activates as Nightshade goes into stasis lock. I pick my head up from my prey just in time to see the rescue party close to within weapons range. Oh, look… Optimus Prime is with them. I lift a hand and wave cordially in their direction. I take a step back from the locked form of my sister, and test my mass on the nearly severed footstrut. Bending slightly, I leap. A hail of laser fire detonates around me, buffeting my attempted flight line as I bring my afterburners online. For a tense moment, I stall in midair, before the jets kick in.

I allow the sight below me to be transmitted with my message back to the command bunker. I wait for a moment just out of rifle range, before I allow my bulk to fold and reform back into the massive transport jet. _Operation: Reformat_ is a go, as Soundwave would say.


	3. Things that May go Boom

Things that May Go BOOM

_A Halogen Character Sketch_

Brawn is still sitting on my chest. For a damned minibot, he's one dense little mech. Dense as in, heavy. Small in size, massive in weight. Definitely one of the main reasons that he was one of the three mechs that jumped me when I… well, when I heard what happened. I think Brawn's under orders to keep me flat on my back until Ratchet says otherwise.

Ratchet, First Aid and Grapple are all locked up inside the medical bay, with Wheeljack purveying messages to and from the supply room. In the six cycles that I have been trapped underneath Brawn, I have seen Perceptor and Skyfire come and go no less than fifteen times apiece. And Brawn still won't let me move from this spot in the hallway.

Downright embarrassing.

But then again, that's my sister they hauled into that room. I think I'm allowed to have a few fits of anger since they were real evasive about what had happened. It'd been the squishy that had let it slip first, so it'd been the squishy that was had faced the brunt of my anger.

The left side of my chassis aches from the dent that Sunstreaker put in it. At least the red twin had been kinder and only tackled me before I could really do damage to the human boy. I suppose, in reflection, I should be grateful that those two didn't rip me into metallic confetti. The twins are still here in the hallway, standing guard at the med bay doors, about fifteen yards away. Sunstreaker isn't watching me, instead he's intently inspecting his knuckles, as though I left some blue paint chips on him purposefully. Sideswipe's watching me on the other hand, but he's doing it so nonchalantly that I had trouble telling at first.

I'm pathetic. Falling back on my training because I don't want to let my thoughts wander to what's going on with Nights. I've got not choice but to stay here until I'm told otherwise. Agitated again, I drum my fingers against the corridors decking. Brawn twists slightly to glance down at me, as though assessing whether or not I'm going to do anything stupid. I connect with his gaze steadily, completely cognizant of just how unsettling my scarlet optics can be.

Brawn finally looks away, making optic contact with Sideswipe this time. I let my head fall back to rest on the floor again, as I listen to the huge sigh the minibot heaves.

"Sideswipe, you wanna switch over here, or what?"

The warrior chuckles instead of responding, giving Brawn a reason to groan softly.

"Listen," I finally speak up, sick of being treated like a doormat. "I'm not gonna do anything. I'm gonna sit here like a good little mech and wait for some news, if you get off my chest, Brawn."

"No can do." My leg actually gets patronizingly patted by a mech half my size, and twice my strength. "Prime says you're stayin' put until Bumblebee gets his report finished. Or Ratchet and gang get Nightshade up and functional again."

"Why don't you just let him up, Brawn?" Sideswipe pipes up, pushing himself off the wall to cross the short distance to my predicament. "He looks like he's learned his lesson." The warrior smiles, and extends a hand down to Brawn. I'm hoping that the minibot gets up before I get… tweaked again.

Instead of being saved by Big Red, I am saved by the slide of the med bay doors opening. Grapple hesitates uncertainly for a moment, almost backing away as Sunstreaker straightened from his post. But the architect shakes him off, and glancing down the hall, toward the rest of us.

"Halogen, Ratchet wants you." That's all it takes, and I'm suddenly in motion again.

I grab Brawn's shoulder with my free hand and put a bit of pressure on him. "You heard the mech. Let me up for Primus' sake!"

Brawn gets a helping hand off my chest by Sideswipe, and I'm on my feet before the warrior can offer me a hand. Instead, he grabs my arm before I get more than a few steps.

"Let us know how she is, huh?"

I feel my optics naturally narrow at the show of concern. These two have been nothing but outspoken against Nights and I since we pledged our guns to Prime. I shrug my shoulder to dislodge his grip, and stride right past the yellow twin. The Sparktwins don't know how good they have it, always knowing when the other's hurt, always understanding what the other thinks. Their brotherhood takes no effort! They should try being a Creation sibling to a walking enigma.

When I shove past Grapple into the medbay, all the anger and tension drains from my circuits. Nightshade looks so tiny and vulnerable laid out on the slab like that. Her chest is open and exposed, but the radiance from her Spark doesn't look so… strong. Ratchet's trying so hard to be appear impassive, but his expression echoes the worry and stress on First Aid's features.

The young Protectobot lets me step up to the slab, going so far as to put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I refrain from shrugging him off, as I let one of my hands curl into Nights' stiff, cold fingers. Everything is quiet for a few moments, as I simply absorb the damage that's been meted out against her body. I'm better at keeping my features impassive, letting the raw anger flush my systems of every other care.

"She's been rigged." Ratchet finally speaks up, coming up to stand on the opposite side of the slab. "We're not sure how to disarm it. It's attached directly to her primary energon feeds."

"Rigged?" I can't help but repeat that, cold fear replacing the warm glow of anger. My hand tightens around my sisters'. Ratchet directs my attention toward the protected zone of the Spark chamber. I lean forward and peer at what he shows me. Five spindly apparatuses are bored into strategic places around her Spark chamber. A small oblong shape lays flat against the reinforced spinal plating, limned in small green lights.

My sister is rigged to explode.

Cold professionalism clips my vocalizer's tone. "It looks like a modified parasite bot." I feel, rather than see, First Aid glance at the CMO. "We were using them before Cybertron shut down to implant virus programs into target mechs. I've never seen one with… explosive capacity."

I want to reach inside her chest, but my hands are much too large. I'd brush up against her Spark chamber and that would be the end of that. A quick glance at the other three mechs in the room confirms the same thing. Ratchet reads my expression and nods slightly. His optics unfocus for a moment, before refocusing on me.

"I've sent for Sparkplug." He explains.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. A squishy was what got her into this mess in the first place. And now that squishy's Creator was going to try to get her out of it? I let go of Nights hand, and cross my arms over my chassis. When the med bay doors slide open once more, I glance back and see a pair of curious faces peering in, one red, and one yellow. I grimace at the two of them in the last instance before the doors close.

Why in the Slag Pits are they so concerned?

First Aid picks up the older squishy and sets him down gently on the table beside Nights chest. "Now, just be careful. This… is a slightly more delicate procedure than you're used to."

The squishy nods and begins to climb carefully up onto Nights torso. I wince as I notice for the first time the preliminary patch job on her shattered abdomen. Grapple's designing and banging together some new armor plating for her chassis, and the steady hum and hammer actually feels, comforting in a way.

"Alright," I proclaim after a few moments. "Don't touch her Spark chamber. We have to excise the parasite without disturbing it." I glance up at Ratchet. "We're going to need a steady energon feed that'll match the current outflow in Nights systems."

Sparkplug seems to have settled into a good position, and his arms are small enough to reach safely around that delicate core. Ratchet finds an unused weapons system that he fiddles with for a moment to match the vital signals from Nightshade. Taking her hand in mine again, I start explaining to the squishy just how this disarmament is going to go.

Eight megacycles later, First Aid finally takes the oblong shape from Sparkplug's hands, and the human climbs slowly off my sister's body. He shakes as he flops down to sit with his back against her arm. He looks up at me, making easy and honest contact with my optics. And then he smiles.

It's the universal language. I return it. Maybe these squishy little primitives aren't so bad after all.


	4. Aftermath

* * *

Author's note: If everything doesn't make sense here, it will later. The twins mention something that's going to happen in my upcoming attempt at the 28-challenge. And Nightshade's intro story is forthcoming, once I find the best way to hook into it!

* * *

Repercussions

_Secondary Observations_

We all express it in different ways. Worry. Fear. Anxiety. Primus, Halogen would probably have taken out the three of us if he hadn't come back to his sensors! Mirage has completely disappeared, and I'm not meaning in just the _you-don't-see-me_ way. Sunny's surfing through his memories, struggling to put a designation to the face of the monster that ripped her apart. Me? I'm doing everything in my ability to stay still, but my leg jiggles in some strange signal-tic that refuses to let me stay still. Any minute now, Sunny's going to take offense to my constant motion, and beat the slag out of me.

Which would be better than just sitting here and waiting.

Prowl had been the one to shoo us away from the medbay. I guess we were making Ratchet or First Aid nervous or something. Idly I spin my energon mug. Part of me regrets not touching the hi-grade stuff, but I don't want to be overcharged incase Sunny does put a designation to that face he saw.

"_Sides._"

I glance up when Sunny's private com pings through. He doesn't look at me, but keeps using that encrypted channel we've always kept for ourselves.

"_When you were trapped, do you remember what you two talked about?_"

No one else in the lounge really knows that we're talking, so I take that one cue from my twin, and keep my optics averted, scowling now at my energon mug. "_Can't say I really do. Everything kinda got…_"

"_Blurred._" Sunny finishes for me as I struggle to find the right word. I hear the soft rumble of his engine, the release of air from his exhaust manifold. Sunstreaker just sighed. I wonder if he's really as desolate as he really looks. We both torment the mercenaries without a second thought, although, over these past few lunar cycles it's gone from being really, almost mean-spirited, to all in good fun. Halogen is one mech who knows how to take a joke.

"_Yeah._" I look up as the hydraulics in the door hiss open. Sunny follows suit; we've both been hyperalert, waiting for Halogen to get kicked out of the medbay too. I can't stop the growl that gets past my filters, and into my vocalizer, as Cliffjumper waltzes in like nothing's wrong. I understand why he looks so smug. His least favorite bot could very well be Spark-null by the time the sun sets.

Something of my thought must have hit Sunstreaker, because he's looking at me with that carefully composed face. His poker-face. My optics widen as they connect with his, and he shakes his head at me. "_Get that image out of your head, right now._" Our tac-com connection vibrates with his restrained rage.

"_But…_"

"_But nothing. She'll be fine. We'll be back to our joyrides before the weeks up._" Sunny's trying to cheer me up. Of all mechs in this room, it's Sunny that's working the hardest to make me smile. If this were only something that was bugging me, he'd have beat the slag out of me five times over by now.

I look back down into my energon mug, my left leg now joining the right in its agitated bouncing. We'd never told anyone about the joyrides. That was our thing… us three. And if she hadn't followed us out that first time, we'd never have gotten to talking. My brother gets me so involved with my inner thoughts that I thoroughly miss the hatch sliding open once more.

At least until Sunny kicks me, hard enough to leave a scuff mark, under the table. Looking up, I spot what Sunny sees: Halogen escorted into the room by First Aid. I'd almost forgotten about Prime's little directive that neither of the mercenaries go anywhere without supervision. They're vocalizing, but low enough that neither Sunny nor I can hear. That is, until we engage all our audio filters.

"I am still uncertain why you continue to rule out that particular potential?" First Aid was asking, keeping a hand on the blue Espirit's shoulder to guide him.

"Because, Dropzone didn't make it out of that shuttle." Halogen countered, wearily. "The entire cockpit was vaporized; even my brother couldn't have survived that."

"_That's it!_" My memory banks take a hard jog to the right, and I grab Sunny's arm. I get a withering stare from my brother, but don't let go. "_She mentioned a third teammate. I got regaled with tales from Cybertron._"

First Aid is taking Halogen over toward the dispenser, probably getting him rations, since the blue mech is looking so down in the tailpipes. I find my agitation growing as I want to get up and join in their conversation, my legs bounce so hard one of them finally jars the table. Sunny's golden fingers clamp down on my knee in a vice-like grip, and I'm forced to sit still.

"You even said yourself," First Aid was pushing on, extracting two rations of energon, only to hand one to the bomb guy. Halogen actually refuses the mug, until First Aid practically wraps the other mechs hands around it. "Those drones were only ever used by you three back on Cybertron."

Halogen takes the entire mug in one deft motion, draining it and shoving the empty back into the recycler before First Aid can protest. "Exactly. The schema for them were on the shuttle's data chips. I'm positive Soundwave got them already."

Sunny looks at me, and I glance over at him. We both know exactly what we're doing tonight: sneaking into the medbay.

"But to modify them so… Completely…" Halogen trails off, reminding me of a confused turbo-pooch.

"You need some good solid recharge, Halo. Go on. I'll make sure you're the first to know when she's back online." First Aid gives the sleek blue mech a pat on the back, and then a good solid shove out the door. I can tell just by watching the Protectobot that he's still worried. First Aid was never one capable of hiding his emotions.

Once Halogen has left the lounge, I push myself up from the table, nodding at Sunny slightly. Crossing over, I join 'Aid at the exit. I make sure to scuff my feet a little so he hears me coming. "So," I finally vocalize aloud, letting the concern creep slowly into my tone. "How is she?"

"Well," First Aid lowers his head to his chassis, blocking any chance that I've got to read his optics. "If you count her getting eighty-six percent of her short term memory banks reformatted as something tolerable… she'll be okay."

I hear Sunstreaker's soft curse over our com, and I stare in horror at 'Aid's back as he walks away from me. He's serious. He's completely honest. Eighty-six percent? Pivoting so I can see Sunny over my missile launcher, neither of us really have to say anything at all.


End file.
